Seven Days Before I Go

**DAY 1** They say death gives you clarity. But for Eliandro Ruiz, it only gave him urgency. He sat on the rooftop of St. Cecilia Hospital, the city lights glowing beneath the twilight sky. In his trembling hand, a single sheet of paper—the diagnosis—shook like the dying autumn leaves at his feet. “Seven days,” he whispered. “I only have seven days.” It was terminal. A rare neurological disease. No cure. No time. Everything he thought he’d have—love, art, a future—gone in the blink of a sentence. But amidst the storm of fear and regret, one thought stood out louder than the rest. Zyra Velez. He had loved her silently for years. In college, she was light and color in a grayscale world. She didn’t know him. Not really. But she once defended him in class—a moment she’d long forgotten, but one he held onto like it meant everything. Since then, he’d watched her from a distance, sketching her into his memories. Now, time was running out. He didn’t want to die with his story unfinished. So he made a silent vow to the wind that night: “I’ll make her smile. Just once. Before I go.” --- The next morning, Eli stared at his reflection in the hospital mirror. Pale skin. Heavy eyes. A man trying to look alive. He left the hospital in a hoodie and cap, trying not to draw attention. The city buzzed around him like it always did—indifferent, fast, unaware. He walked the familiar streets, unsure of where to go, but guided by something he couldn’t explain. He ended up at the university café—the one near the library. It had been three years since he last saw her. Would she even recognize him? He sat on the outdoor bench, sketchpad on his lap, pretending to draw but really just stalling. Every passerby made his heart jump. Then he saw her. Zyra. She was exactly as he remembered. Hair in a messy bun, oversized jacket, coffee in hand, laughing at something on her phone. Still that light. Still that color. Eli stood, but his legs felt like stone. What could he say? Hi, I’m the guy who’s been in love with you for years and only has seven days left? He turned, ready to walk away. But fate had other plans. “Eli?” He froze. She was right behind him. “Eli Ruiz, right? From Delos Reyes' class?” she asked, eyebrows lifted. He blinked. “Yeah… wow. You remember?” “Barely,” she chuckled. “You always had a sketchpad, didn’t you?” He held it up like proof. “Still do.” “That’s cool,” she said. “What are you doing here?” He swallowed hard. “Looking for someone.” Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Found them?” “Maybe,” he said, voice soft. “Would you… want to get coffee?” She tilted her head. “Are you dying or something?” His laugh was more pain than humor. “Actually… yeah.” A pause. Then she smiled. “Well, I wasn’t planning to say yes. But now I kind of have to.” --- They sat in the back corner of the café. She ordered black coffee. He got tea. Neither of them spoke for a minute. “So,” Zyra started, leaning forward, “you gonna tell me what’s going on, or are you just going to drop that bomb and act mysterious?” “I got a diagnosis. Terminal,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “Seven days left.” She blinked. The smile faded. “You’re serious?” He nodded. She leaned back, eyes scanning his face like she was trying to see the truth in his skin. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Don’t be,” he replied. “Just… humor me for a few hours. That’s all I’m asking.” She looked at him for a long moment. Then she said, “Alright. But only if you tell me why me?” He looked down at his cup. “Because… you were always the bright spot. Back then, when everything felt heavy. You made the world feel less terrifying.” Zyra stared at him, stunned. “I didn’t know.” “You weren’t supposed to,” he said with a sad smile. “I was just a guy in the back row with a pencil.” She was quiet for a beat. Then she said, “Well, pencil guy, I’ve got time. Let’s make the next hour count.” --- They talked about everything and nothing. About books, college memories, movies they never watched, dreams they were too afraid to chase. Eli found himself laughing. Really laughing. And it didn’t feel forced. Zyra had a way of pulling warmth out of people. She wasn’t trying to impress him. She was just herself. Genuine. Untouched by the weight that pressed on his chest. When she excused herself to go to the restroom, Eli took out his sketchpad and began to draw. Just like old times. The curve of her jaw, the strands of her hair, the way her eyes lit up mid-laughter. When she came back, she peeked over his shoulder. “You still draw me,” she whispered. “I never stopped,” he admitted. Her voice softened. “You’re really something else.” He shrugged. “I just needed today.” “You have more,” she said. He looked at her, startled. She gave him a teasing smile. “You think you’re the only one who can make spontaneous decisions? If you’re dying, I’m giving you a better send-off than awkward coffee.” Eli’s eyes stung. He didn’t expect her to care. Not like this. But she did. And that was enough to make him believe he hadn’t lived for nothing. --- That night, Eli returned to the hospital with a page torn from his sketchpad. On the back, he wrote: "Day One: She remembered me. She laughed. She stayed. That’s more than I ever thought I’d get." And for the first time in months, he slept without nightmares.